Words on a Page
by LJ9
Summary: What makes a good story? Skittery has it in him to write one, even if he's got to do it in the margins of a newspaper.


_Inspired by tumblr user staticsiren's idea that since Michael Goorjian recently published a novel, there ought to be fic of Skittery as a writer. If anyone at any point in the past had told me that in 2017 I would be writing_ Newsies _fanfiction I don't think I would have believed them._

* * *

Just a few strokes of the knife would do. No matter how urgent the need to write, he had to take his time now. There was an art to it: too dull and the lead would be hard to read, but too sharp and the point would rip straight through the paper. The margins of the _World_ weren't ideal for anything other than brief notes, but they would do for the moment. Finally, with pencil point perfected, he folded the paper and leaned over the desk.

This morning he'd seen a shaft of sunlight reflected off of a window high above onto a patch of pavement. Everything in that square of light, even if only there for an instant, had looked more real, and more beautiful, and more truly itself than anything he'd ever seen. He'd found himself transfixed by it, and even the most cynical voice in his head hadn't been able to convince him that it—the light, the moment—was anything other than sublime.

He'd guarded the feeling all day, calling out headlines distractedly for fear of real life wresting the memory of that wonder from him. The minute he was down to his last paper he hurried back to the lodginghouse. The other fellas wouldn't understand if he tried to explain that moment, the feeling (one that he wasn't sure he understood himself); he wasn't like the Mouth, couldn't say things right when it was important. But writing it down was different. Even if no one ever read it, it would be enough if he got it on paper. That made it permanent, and real. Words on a page mattered. They could last longer than anything else he'd ever do.

* * *

Without question, the best stories were those that sold papes with no improvement necessary. They were the ones so compelling that even the headline writers couldn't make them sound crummy. Whether or not the stories were true, whether the writers had been faithful to events or made them up completely, didn't matter to the kid selling the rag as long as he got his penny.

If he asked, Jack would insist that the best stories were about guys adventuring out west. They'd feature cattle rustling and gunfights, and the hero would manfully prevail over the villain and all would be right…until the next volume came out.

Specs liked things that took place in the past, or in other countries. He didn't always stick with novels, either; sometimes he'd scrounge up a book of facts about something like tulip production, or some Frenchman's description of American democracy. He seemed perfectly happy with his nose stuck in some thick book with no illustrations. Dutchy, on the other hand, liked stories of the improbable, the bizarre, the fantastic. After hearing Dutchy recount the tale of Frankenstein's monster, Crutchy had pretended his bum leg was possessed and it'd scared the pants off of Snipeshooter. They'd all laughed and teased Snipes for being so frightened of imaginary monsters; and then Dutchy had read "The Masque of the Red Death" to them, every guy half-hanging off of his bunk to hear his halting, ghastly whisper. Skittery had lain awake long afterward, eyes wide in the dark, listening for the sounds of his friends' breathing.

By the look of his little wooden sword, Les probably liked stories about knights or soldiers—the real virtuous kind, though, the ones who were just and noble, who protected the innocent and slew dragons and all. Heroes like Robin Hood were always popular with kids like them; folks who were down on their luck liked to hear about the possibility of someone standing up for them and, better still, bringing them cash.

David's teachers thought a good story was one that was truer than true. Skittery knew this because he'd once asked—though not in so many words, and not phrased as a question. He'd frowned until Dave explained himself. "If a story is true," he'd said, "it's true for that situation, those people. A true story's got to have all its details right, and it can only happen once. But if it's more than that, if it's truer than true, it can be true for any time. And it doesn't have to be historically correct to mean something, to…to be _real_. Does that make sense?" He'd given a worried smile and Skittery had nodded, slowly, wondering for a second just how stupid Dave thought he was. Then, relieved, Dave'd launched into a lecture on metaphors and symbolism and layers of meaning, how a bird could really be a burden at the same time that it was a savior.

At the end of his monologue he'd looked at Skittery as if just noticing him. He'd cocked his head, expression inquisitive as he asked, "What do _you_ think makes a good story, Skitts?"

"Clean newsprint and dark ink," he'd said, taking a last drag of his cigarette. David had barked out a short laugh and let the subject drop, but his eyes stayed bright and curious and thoughtful.

Tumbler wasn't choosy. He preferred playing games to listening to stories, and was happy enough with whatever tale Skittery was willing to tell. All too often that meant a simple plot where a young hero saved the day with his enthusiasm, winning smile, and acrobatic skill. It was lucky for Skittery that the kid was so easily pleased, but he deserved better. He deserved a life where he didn't have to worry about earning enough to pay for his room and board, and a life with someone who didn't have to crib dime-novel plots for his bedtime stories. Skittery deserved some of the hard luck that'd come his way, he couldn't deny it; but playful Tumbler shouldn't have to face a life hell-bent on beating him down.

So sometimes his scrawls were bitter, venomous little screeds. Sometimes, even when he closed his eyes, he could only see the ugliness of metropolitan life: the overripe bruises, the uneven cobblestones littered with cigarette butts, the shards of glass and puddles of sick and piss outside a tavern. Sometimes the dark shadows under Racetrack's eyes opened a yawning, sucking hole in his chest; sometimes the tracks of tears on some street kid's face made the gorge rise in his throat. Then he would inscribe curses against the city, against the rich who kept them poor, against the thieves and cheats and everyday murderers. The truth was that the city was all hard edges, filthy slush in the winter and stinking piles of garbage in the summer, grumbling bellies and gaping pockets.

But this was also true, he remembered: they had changed the world once. They had hungered long enough and fought hard enough to make some kind of difference, no matter how small. Even to him that proved something, meant that just maybe hope remained. With that hope it was possible that he could write a better world—not the way Denton had, nor the way Dickens had. But maybe he could help people believe that things could be better. Maybe he could show them a patch of sunlight on a city street.

* * *

He had no idea how long Dave had been there before the other boy asked, "Is it a good story?" For a moment heat flared in his chest, a flame of preemptive anger at imagined ridicule and of embarrassment at being caught, of humiliation at his pitiful scrap of paper and stub of a pencil. David had books tucked under his arm; David was going to college soon, thinking of putting his mouth to use as a lawyer, ready to save more poor kids. Skittery closed his eyes, swallowed down his ire and envy, took a steadying breath.

He still waited in the doorway, unassuming, patient. However he was dressed now, Dave'd once had ink on his shirt and spit in his palm—he was one of them, no better and no worse. And he was a lousy scrapper, next to useless in a brawl, but he knew how to fight; instead of fists, he used words to win. Though every newsie sweated and starved and slaved for words, Skittery thought that Dave probably understood better than most their power.

Was it a good story? He glanced down at margins full of handwriting, an evanescent moment almost nearly captured on the page. "Not yet," he admitted, and then let himself smile—a patch of light. "But it will be."


End file.
